Chapter 102
Chapter 102
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 101
Chapter Title: Pianist Boy
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Thud thud thud thud!
Numerous yokai chasing after the carriage.
But they weren't strong enough to have physical forms, so the people around couldn't perceive them.
Right now, Pindenai was humming happily over scoring some cigarettes, and Iluania, driving the carriage, showed no particular urgency.
The question was why they were causing such a ruckus and chasing after us.
[Shall I respond?]
"Wait."
They looked hideous on the outside, but they didn't feel particularly threatening.
Not even the faintest hint of killing intent. Curious about their goal, I decided to watch for now.
"Ugh, noisy."
Pindenai scratched at her ear irritably, making me realize the piano music I'd missed amid the yokai commotion.
"Wow, that's good."
In contrast to Pindenai, Iluania was so immersed in the piano performance that she hummed along merrily while steering the carriage.
And soon enough, I realized the yokai that had caught up to the carriage were passing us by.
[We're not their target, then?]
". . . All the yokai seem headed to the same place. Follow them."
[I don't wanna . . . .]
Grumbling all the while, the Black Necromancer still obeyed my order, stepping out of the carriage to tail the yokai.
The piano music seemed to be drifting from the city center, and the closer we got, the louder it grew.
"They called it a city of artists? Totally not my scene."
Pindenai clicked her tongue in annoyance. Iluania scolded her that it was great and what was her problem, but honestly, I agreed with Pindenai.
I'd never been into the arts.
Like I'd said before, music, painting, that whole world—just abnormally infested with ghosts.
My disinterest had long since curdled into outright dislike.
Anyway.
We arrived at a rather stately-looking inn.
The signboard read 'Leon' in elegant cursive script. The building was old, but solidly built, exuding enduring strength.
The foundation work had clearly been done with exceptional care.
"Really the kind of place evil spirits would love."
Sturdy enough not to collapse, and ancient to boot—the ideal haunt for them.
Screams were already echoing from inside the inn, proving the point.
"Innkeeper! Says no business here?"
Still dressed in her nun's habit, Pindenai thumped the poster plastered to the inn door.
I brushed past her, gripped the door, and pushed it wide open.
It swung inward smoothly.
What wafted out wasn't the must of accumulated dust, but the clean, distinctive scent of a well-kept inn.
It could have opened for business right that moment without issue.
The spotless upkeep, the air of readiness—it all spoke to the innkeeper's desperation.
"It says no business . . . !"
The middle-aged woman seated at the counter, absorbed in her newspaper, leapt to her feet irritably at the sound of the door.
But her words trailed off. Years of experience and sharp instincts told her I wasn't your average customer.
"Who . . . are you?"
To her awkward head-tilt, I drew a single sheet of paper from my pocket.
"Seriford Filen, correct?"
"Y-yes! That's me, Seriford Filen."
Flustered that I knew her name, she squinted at the document I'd produced.
Then her eyes flew wide in recognition. A paper she knew well.
Smudged with tear stains, the ink thick and letters blurred from the force of the pen.
It was the petition Seriford Filen had sent to the royal family and the church, begging them to resolve the bizarre incidents plaguing her hotel.
"Necromancer Dayus Verdi. I'm here to handle the anomalies at this hotel."
At those words, Seriford clapped a hand over her mouth—then burst into tears.
She didn't stop there, dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead to the floor.
"Ah, aaah! Finally! You've finally come! Finaaaally!"
A rather fervent welcome.
It showed just how much torment the supernatural disturbances had inflicted on her.
But then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she paled in terror and jerked her head up.
"Th-that is, I've actually called in several priests before to resolve the situation."
". . . ."
"Th-they demanded donations as travel fees, so . . . I have no money left now."
Fearing I might turn on my heel, she spat the words in a desperate rush.
"I'll prepare it right away! If you can just normalize the hotel, I'll start operations and somehow manage . . . !"
"No need."
". . . Pardon?"
She'd think I was spouting nonsense, but that reaction mirrored the times.
In this era, it was taken for granted that the king's envoys—public servants ostensibly serving the people—would pocket bribes.
The guards manning the gates taking kickbacks from merchants had even become a cultural norm.
But that wasn't why I was here.
Changing perceptions of black mages was just a side benefit. As a necromancer, what mattered was confronting as many evil spirits as possible.
Especially since I couldn't afford to look weak against the necromancers on Dante's side in our coming clash.
Remegaton would help, of course—but better safe than sorry.
"I have no intention of demanding payment. I'm just here to help."
I glanced sidelong at Pindenai.
Arms akimbo, one leg crossed over the other, she wore a bored look and raised an eyebrow as if to ask what the problem was.
"While I handle the situation, Nun—you get the list of those priests who took commissions from this woman."
". . . Aha?"
Pindenai mulled it over for a moment, then grinned wickedly, clasping her hands together in mock prayer.
"By the will of God, you plan to crush them all, huh."
". . . We need to verify how they took the money, what it was used for, any chance it was siphoned off personally, and so on."
"I'll make sure she knows my clasped hands aren't just for praying."
Pindenai swung her joined hands like a flail. Her voice and expression stayed soft and serene—the polar opposite of her words and actions.
"Just do the investigation. I'm delegating the rest to the saintess—no need to push you that far."
Pindenai shrugged, a touch disappointed.
Seriford stared up at me blankly, her face screaming confusion at the unfolding scene.
No matter.
"Per the petition, cries echo from every room."
"Y-yes!"
"Right. I'll take care of it. Bring the keys and follow."
I stated it matter-of-factly and headed straight for the guest rooms.
* * *
Exorcising the evil spirits lingering at Leon was child's play.
No need to deploy Remegaton. It was simply a matter of granting repose to the wailing souls—no cause for inflicting pain.
One thing nagged at me, though.
All the ghosts were terrified.
Not bound spirits, yet they feared venturing outside—clinging desperately to the hotel.
'The yokai outside must be the reason.'
As thanks for resolving her issues, the proprietress begged us to use the rooms freely during our stay in the city. We decided to lodge there.
We hadn't booked anywhere else anyway, so I gratefully accepted her hospitality.
Gushing about reopening for business tomorrow, the excited proprietress's smile never faded.
A glance out the window revealed it was already late night.
Too early for bed, so I stepped out for a stroll.
Pindenai had dragged Iluania off to the church in town—likely stirring up a storm, since they still weren't back.
They'd manage.
Iluania would rein in Pindenai's wild streak, and Pindenai's nun act was flawless.
"Hmm."
The moniker "Claren, city of artists" fit perfectly—the streets brimmed with vibrant allure.
Even simple flower beds were arranged with artistic flair, and murals adorned every path.
The darkened avenues glowed softly under deliberate lantern light, creating an intimate ambiance.
A perfect place for a walk. But what stood out were the performances echoing from every corner.
The piano melody tugged at me again, bringing the absent Black Necromancer to mind.
I'd sent her after the yokai horde, and she still wasn't back. Had something happened?
Lost in thought, I found myself drawn along by the music.
The performance emanated from an old piano beside the grand central fountain.
In any other city, it might draw noise complaints. But Claren was different.
Tourists had gathered, taking seats by the fountain to savor the player's music.
Not packed to the gills—just comfortably spacious, ideal for passersby to pause and listen.
The virtuoso behind it all was, astonishingly, a small boy.
Around Aria's age, give or take. He played with fervent passion, but his expression was far from joyful.
And one more thing that caught the eye.
"Hmm."
The grotesque audience encircling the boy.
Yokai clustered thickly, standing sentinel around the performing child.
The music swelled toward its climax, the yokai watching in utter silence.
The boy's face grew ashen by degrees.
His gaze fixed solely on the sheet music and keys—an obsessive refusal to look elsewhere.
[Oh? You're here?]
Then a familiar voice from the spectator seats. The Black Necromancer, who'd been enjoying the show, approached me casually.
"What have you been up to."
[I-I was investigating.]
". . . ."
She looked for all the world like she'd been slacking off, so I stared until she hurriedly changed tack.
[More importantly, check that out. That kid seems to be the one drawing all the yokai in the city.]
"Yeah, looks that way."
[And . . . not certain, but in my opinion . . . .]
The Black Necromancer hesitated, then cautiously pointed at my eyes.
[That kid . . . has eyes like yours.]
In a word.
"He sees the dead?"
She nodded vigorously.
[Exactly.]
I regarded the boy steadily.
Sweat beading cold on his brow, face drained pale, fingers flying over the keys—I found myself taking a slight interest in the young pianist.